


Planning

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mondo goes to wipe his fingers against his jeans, remembers at the last minute that he’s nicely dressed, and reaches for a towel instead before he reaches out for the top button of Ishimaru’s shirt. 'You’re not supposed to button them all the way up.'" Mondo plans a surprise and Ishimaru cries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planning

Mondo beats Ishimaru home. It’s a rare occurrence -- Ishimaru works in an office, which means he gets up earlier and gets home more consistently than his carpenter boyfriend -- but Mondo deliberately left work a few hours early, counting on the other man’s strict routine to bring him home exactly on time and exactly when dinner is ready

He’s not disappointed. He expects Ishimaru back by 5:35; the clock reads 5:34 when the front door opens, and he can hear Ishimaru pause at the clear evidence of Mondo’s shoes by the front door.

“Mondo?” he calls. The sound twists with confusion. “Is that you?”

“You think it’s someone else?” Mondo shouts back by way of an answer. It takes Ishimaru a few minutes to get his shoes off at the door and his jacket and tie hung up the way he likes them, but the delay means that by the time he comes around the corner into the kitchen he’s just got on his slacks and his white button-up shirt.

Mondo half-turns from the counter. “Hiya.” He goes to wipe his fingers against his jeans, remembers at the last minute that he’s nicely dressed, and reaches for a towel instead to take the worst of the butter off his fingertips before he reaches out for the top button of Ishimaru’s shirt. “You’re not supposed to button them all the way up.”

“You are if you’re wearing a tie,” Ishimaru offers back, but he tips his chin up anyway so Mondo’s fingers scrape along the bottom of his chin as he works the button free of the stiff fabric. “Yours isn’t buttoned enough.”

Mondo looks down. He’s left the top two buttons of his own shirt undone in addition to the collar and rolled the sleeves up past his elbows and he still feels uncomfortably constrained. “Hey, don’t complain. At least I’m dressed up at all.”

“You are,” Ishimaru agrees, and he reaches out to touch the crisp white shoulder of the other man’s shirt with the very tips of his fingers. “You didn’t wear this to work, did you?”

“No,” Mondo admits, keeping his eyes on the pan in front of him. “Changed when I got home.”

He is expecting Ishimaru to press the issue, trying to form an explanatory lie in preparation, but the next thing the other says is, “Are you making pancakes?”

“Hell yes I am,” Mondo declares, relieved by the change of subject.

“It’s nearly six, Mondo. Why are you making pancakes?”

“They’re your favorite,” Mondo offers as an explanation. It is an explanation, although from the whimper of consternation he gets from his boyfriend not enough for Ishimaru.

“But pancakes are for breakfast. It’s dinner, now.”

“Whatever,” Mondo shrugs away the other’s protest. “It’s still food, right?”

“But --” Ishimaru sounds like Mondo has declared the sun rises in the north and now he’s watching the dawn. “But --”

“Shut up.” Mondo slings an arm around the other’s shoulders and pulls him in so he can press his lips against the corner of Ishimaru’s mouth. The whimper of protest in Ishimaru’s throat goes softer and pleased and some of the stiffness in his back unbends a little, like he’s melting, before Mondo grins and pushes him back. “Go and wait for your dinner.”

Ishimaru huffs but he goes, and by the time Mondo comes out with the platter of food he’s actually leaning back in the chair at the table, a couple degrees off perpendicular to the ground. His sleeves are still buttoned all the way at his wrist but the button Mondo undid at his collar is exposing a tiny triangle of pale skin. Mondo’s eyes linger there and he grins as he sets the plate down with a flourish.

“Dinner!” he declares. “Of pancakes. You had better enjoy them, I slaved over those for a good half hour.”

Ishimaru eyes the pancakes, then looks up at Mondo’s face; he’s trying to maintain a severe expression but his eyes are sparkling and turning up at the corners like they do when he smiles too wide, and when Mondo grins at him his mouth twitches in giveaway as well.

“May I have a plate?” he asks. “Or is that out of the question?”

“Of course.” Mondo sweeps back to the kitchen and returns with place settings for two stacked somewhat precariously atop each other. Ishimaru flinches at the balance and reaches out to grab at the edge as a fork slides over the precipice; when Mondo grabs at it too they both miss the fork and the plates very nearly crash to the floor before Mondo recovers and saves them from their impending fate.

“Just hold still,” he insists, pulling the dishes back from Ishimaru’s reach before laying the silverware and plate in front of the other man. “Shit, can’t you let me do this for you for once?”

Ishimaru crosses his arms over his chest, and bites his lip, and very clearly has to fight to stop himself interrupting Mondo’s attempts to dish out the food. He does manage, though, and finally Mondo settles himself across the table, slouches down into his chair, and grins.

“Okay, you can go for it.”

Ishimaru unfolds himself carefully, as if his creases are made of tissue paper and may tear with rough handling, and he handles his knife and fork with significantly more care than Mondo does. His sleeves are still down to his narrow wrists, and the white of his shirt will show any stain immediately, but he makes it through his entire first plateful without getting so much as a smudge of butter on the cloth. Mondo knows he lacks that sort of care himself -- hence the rolled-up sleeves -- and he keeps having to pause to lick butter off the back of his hand or tip back from the table to dodge a spill of sticky crumbs from a too-precarious forkful. But Ishimaru is watching him and smiling, and Mondo keeps looking at the slide of cloth over the other’s skin, and even when Ishimaru starts a third plateful after Mondo is entirely finished (he does love pancakes, even if it is the wrong time of day) Mondo doesn’t feel as much as a flicker of impatience.

Ishimaru becomes self-conscious of Mondo’s eyes on him as he finishes his last bite; Mondo can tell in the way his shoulders go a little stiff and his movements adopt awkward deliberation instead of unconscious grace. He sets his fork down and leans barely back in his chair, just until the back hits his shoulders, and smiles across the table at the other man.

“That was delicious,” he offers.

Mondo can feel his smile touch his eyes. “I’m glad you liked.” He starts to stand, moving fast because he’s anticipating Ishimaru’s echoing movement and he wants to forestall it. He manages to get his hand on the other’s shoulder just as he’s starting to shift, pushes Ishimaru back to sitting in spite of the confusion rising in the other’s scarlet eyes.

“What --” Ishimaru starts to say, but Mondo is talking over him, the words he’s been practicing under his breath all day finally coming out audible and clear.

“Ishimaru Kiyotaka.” His knees are folding under him; with Ishimaru seated he has to drop all the way back to his heels to be at the right height, but he keeps his hand against the other’s shoulder. Not that he needs to hold the smaller man in place. Ishimaru looks shocked into utter stillness, eyes going wide in response to the movement or the tone or the words, Mondo’s not entirely sure. There are no tears yet, though, so he’s obviously not entirely caught on.

“I love you.” It’s not the first time he’s said it out loud, but it is still a rare enough occurrence that Ishimaru’s eyes start to go liquid even before Mondo continues. “Will you marry me?”

That does it. Ishimaru’s crying even before he rocks backward in shock, well before his expression indicates any sort of real comprehension of the question. He doesn’t cover his mouth; his hand comes out instead, reaches to grip at a handful of the shirt over the other man’s shoulder. The movement makes Mondo grin, nearly pulls a laugh from him even as he ducks his head in the first rising flush of embarrassment.

Ishimaru blinks -- the movement dislodges the rising liquid into damp trails across his cheeks -- and closes his mouth so he can swallow. His other hand comes out with the first, this time to press his palm warm against Mondo’s cheek, and he says, “Yes,” even before the shock has worn off enough to let him start smiling.

It’s not that Mondo was expecting him to say no. Anytime he thought about this, he expected an affirmative of some sort, either via a kiss or a hug or just a smile. But it comes so fast and so clear that all his plans collapse into confusion in his head.

“Huh?” he manages, and Ishimaru smiles properly in spite of his continuing tears and relaxes his white-knuckle grip against Mondo’s shirt.

“Yes.” He takes a shaky breath. “And I love you too.”

Mondo flushes. “You are such a dork.”

Ishimaru’s hands are sliding back into his hair, now, the other man coming sideways off his chair to pool in Mondo’s lap, posture melting into liquidity along with his eyes. “You always say that.”

“Only because it’s always true.”

Ishimaru kisses the corner of Mondo’s mouth; it’s not until he’s pulling away that the larger man recalls their brief moment in the kitchen, recognizes the sentimental echo in the action. It makes him smile until he has to tuck his face in against Ishimaru’s shoulder to hide the expression.

“Is that why you’re wearing this?” Ishimaru asks against his hair, one of his hands stroking across the fabric of the shirt over Mondo’s shoulders. Mondo nods without speaking, winds his arms around Ishimaru’s waist as the other goes on. “And why you made dinner?”

“Yeah.” Mondo rocks back without letting go of Ishimaru; after a moment of confused resistance the other lets himself be pulled down to the floor so his weight is resting over the larger man’s form. “You got me all figured out. You can go ahead and get bored with me now.”

“Shut up.” The words are odd in Ishimaru’s voice, but he’s picked up the affectionate tone from Mondo as well as the phrase, and it makes the other man smile. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

“Ah well,” Mondo groans dramatically. When he brings his hands down to gently tug the bottom edge of Ishimaru’s shirt free from his pants, the other man doesn’t protest at all. “I guess I was never gonna be able to convince you of everything.”

Ishimaru laughs against his hair and his fingers come down across the skin under Mondo’s loose shirt. “I stick to my principles.”

By the time they think to move from the floor to the bedroom, both their shirts are significantly farther open and significantly more rumpled than they were.


End file.
